


Silence

by FoolishAngel1987



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Pre-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-28
Updated: 2013-12-28
Packaged: 2018-01-06 10:43:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1105847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FoolishAngel1987/pseuds/FoolishAngel1987
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Silence was how John dealt with Sherlock's death. Not talking about the pain seemed to help keep it at bay for a while until he was forced into confronting it. Two years of fighting , and John still wasn't sure he had moved passed it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Silence

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own any of the characters used in this fanfiction. They are all properties of the BBC, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and anyone else involved. I take no credit for any of the characters. I just borrowed them for this story.

“John? Are you alright? You haven't said much in days.”

“I'm fine. I just don't have much to say that's all.”

“You can talk to me if you need to. About anything, anything at all.”

“There's nothing to talk about. So why bother?”

\--------

They all wanted him to talk about it, they said it would help ease the pain. John didn't see how that could be. Often times the pain felt immense, other wordly, and much bigger then him. He could barely contain it but he was unable to give voice to his anguish. How does a person even begin to sort through wounds like that? There was so much to say from other people's perspectives and not one of them could understand why he wasn't speaking about it. They were all worried when his silence went unbroken, sometimes for days at a time. Molly, Greg, Mrs. Hudson all took turns in expressing that to him, expressing their sympathies for the situation. He knew they meant well but the constant push and pull sent him into a near blind rage that lead John to yelling at the top of his lungs for them all to leave. And eventually they did, not for long as they didn't like to leave him alone. But for the moment he was and he preferred it that way.

The silence pressed in on him heavily just like the hollow space in his chest pressed outward. He could have talked then, released the pressure now that it was only him in the flat. John could pretend that Sherlock was sitting in the chair opposite him, hands tucked under his chin, his eyes focused and yet still distant. It would be just like any other time they had talked and as long as John didn't stare at the empty chair too much, he could convince himself that he wasn't alone. It wouldn't be too hard. When Sherlock had immersed himself in his mind palace, he very rarely responded to any outside stimuli so now wouldn't be different. Until the time came when John would inevitably remember that the silence from the black chair would be permanent and the anguish would hit him with such force that he had to stuff his fist into his mouth to stop any noise from coming out and alerting Mrs. Hudson. If she heard him cry out, attempts to talk would follow and he didn't want to talk. John Watson didn't care if he ever talked again. The one person in the world he would have talked to, had taken his own life with next to no warning. A short phone call, a goodbye and then the Fall. Sherlock took everything with him that day; all the friendship, the comfort, the love. His heart. All gone. All shattered over the pavement in front of St. Barts. 

And they all thought it would the right thing for him to talk about it. Talk about those last precious moment between Sherlock and him. He wasn't going to give those to anyone, they would stay locked away inside.

So John chose silence.

\-----------

Update now. Only have a few seconds to spare, don't waste it.-SH

To the point as usual. Wouldn't expect anything less.- MH

Mycroft.-SH

John has confined himself to the flat, he rarely leaves except for work and to go to the store. He has accepted no cases since your death and has cut off contact with the Yard as well as Greg Lestrade. I have also deemed it unwise to approach him myself.-MH

That is for the best. John would not welcome you right now.- SH

I'll keep an eye on him as best I can. Don't take too long to come home-MH

Missing me already?-SH

For John's sake you need to return as soon as you can. No excuses-MH

You underestimate him.-SH

And you put too much faith in his ability to move on from you. Perhaps both of us are wrong- MH

\-----------

3 months after the Fall....

“It's been months since your last appointment, why have you decided to come back now?”

“I've been told that if I didn't come in then I would be forcibly committed for observation.” John heard how strange his voice sounded in the quiet office, it almost didn't sound like it belonged to him. That's how infrequently he spoke out loud these days. It was for that reason that he was here today. Mrs. Hudson had been the one to make the call to Greg, explaining that John had been incoherent and unresponsive to any form of communication for nearly 5 days and she was worried. John remembered Greg coming in and kneeling down in front of him and telling him to get up and go back to his therapist because he needed to talk to someone. John had naturally not responded, just stared at the wall on the other side of the room where he could see the skull on the mantle over the fireplace. Greg had gotten back up and left the room for a few minutes, a phone in his hand. There were a few muffled exchanges before he returned and informed John that if he didn't go back to therapy at least a few times, then he would have him put in the hospital against his will. It was at this that John had looked up and agreed, only thinking that he would have to show up and that could be enough. He looked at Ella, who was watching him expectantly to go on and he shrugged. “I didn't exactly relish the idea of being taken to the hospital against my will. So here I am.”

“Here you are. So perhaps you should take advantage of this time and say something.” Ella folded her hands in her lap and leaned back in the chair, her eyes never leaving his face and he found it hard to look away. He knew how this worked, he knew what was expected of him. It was what everyone had been wanting him to do. Talk about it John. You'll feel better. He wouldn't like you like this. You know Sherlock would hate this kind of thing. It was what he had been telling himself for months now, every night when he lay curled up in Sherlock's bed alone. Sherlock would despise how he was acting, would have made a comment about John's sentimentality getting the best of him and how it needed to stop. It was those moments when he was imagining the responses that he had clarity. The Sherlock he had made love to in this bed would have been adverse to the mourning or at least to how long it had gone on. John didn't want to be that, but he didn't know how to let it go. Ella seemed to read his mind because she leaned forward and said. “How about you start small? Talk about something that made you smile.”

“That will just make me miss him more.” John heard it slip before he could even attempt to stop it and for a few seconds he hated himself. He had been doing such a good job at keeping it all contained, all to himself and in that moment a hole had opened up and things started shifting. He couldn't stop it and he hated the relief that came. “I still sleep in his bed.”

“It makes you feel close to him now that he's not there.” Ella made a note on the paper in her lap that he didn't bother trying to read upside down.

“His clothes still hang in the closet, I haven't packed anything away. I like that they still smell like him.” John tapped his fingers on the chair's wooden arm and looked out the window to the gray sky. Perhaps that was too personal of a detail to share but the memory was still fresh in his mind from this morning when he had stood with his face buried in Sherlock's clothes and breathed in his scent. It had made his heart skip and burn. “Is that crazy?”

“Not crazy, just sad. You're missing a friend, a lover. Its not out of context that would seek out anything that reminds you of him.” She said it matter of factly, nothing condescending in her tone. “He was important to you..”

“I thought I was important to him..” John pressed his lips together, thinking back to the one thought that tended to seep into his mind when he was feeling vulnerable. He knew how he had felt about Sherlock since the beginning, he knew how he felt towards the end. And he had been under the assumption that he knew what he had meant to the detective as well. But it was obvious that John had been wrong. Sherlock had taken the plunge off the roof despite his pleas and had taken all those feelings with him, without regard to what it would do to John. Maybe Sherlock had simply stopped caring. John didn't say any of this. “I hate him for what he did.”

“That's natural. You watched someone you loved die by his hands and you don't understand why he did it. He made you bear witness to his suicide. You're allowed to hate him.”

“I don't want to hate him. It would somehow erase all the good moments between us and I don't want to let those go..”

\---------------

4 months after the Fall.........

He started going back to therapy. He seems to be coping better after being threatened.-MH

What do you mean threatened? Why didn't you mention this sooner? Explain- SH

It's taken care of. He wasn't responsive for nearly a week and when Lestrade went to check on him, he was just sitting there in the flat. Greg thought it was wise to make a call to me for advice. And I simply gave it.-MH

And what exactly did this advice entail?-SH

I told you I would look after him and I did. The condition was that he go back to therapy or we would have him committed for observation. Nothing too drastic.-MH

John didn't take too kindly to that suggestion I'm assuming, he never was amicable to ultimatums.-SH

You would know..And no, he did not take it well. Lestrade got a fist to his face before he was able to restrain John enough to get him to agree-MH

Good old John. At least there is still some life inside of him- SH

Don't be so naïve. He's struggling Sherlock. Even you must know that.-MH

I am aware of that.-SH

\-------------

1 year after the Fall.......

“John, what are we doing up here?” Molly felt her voice catch in her throat as she and John stepped through the doorway that let them out on to the roof and watched as John pushed ahead of her and started walking towards the edge. She followed after him, prepared to grab him if something happened. Not that she expected him to do anything stupid like jump, John had come a long way since the early days after Sherlock's suicide. He was making progress, he was moving on. But the fact that he had come to St. Barts today of all days and wanted to go up to the roof made her certain that his head wasn't exactly in the right place. The look that had been in his eyes when he came into the labs and asked her to come with him made her unable to refuse. How could she refuse him anything after taking part in helping Sherlock fake his suicide? Most days she still felt the pang of guilt hit her every time she thought about it and thought about John all alone in the flat, even though she was reminded that in the end it would be all worth it when everyone was safe. Seeing John mourn so hard and now seeing him standing near the spot where Sherlock had stood for what John thought was the last time, almost had her forgetting that this was all an act. She went to stand behind John, resisting the urge to reach out and touch his shoulder. “John..”

“Don't worry Molly. I'm fine.” He sounded detached, far away as he looked at the edge of the roof with his hands clasped behind his back. There was tension in the back of his neck, like he was trying to stop himself from thinking about something. Molly didn't say anything and just stood there with her hands tucked into the pockets of her lab coat and waited. Whatever John had come up here for, he would express in his own time. That was the one thing the past year had taught her when it came to Sherlock's best friend and lover, that John could not be forced to open up until he was ready. So she learned to back off and just be there until he needed someone. Some times he didn't and other times he just wanted someone there, not speaking. And right now she wasn't entirely sure which she was suppose to be. John shuffled back and forth on the balls of his feet, clearly resisting the urge to go any closer. When he did speak, his voice was quiet. “Do you think he was scared?”

“What?” Molly had heard him just fine but she wasn't expecting John to say that. She should have though, they were standing on the roof where Sherlock had jumped from. The mention of that day would have come up and yet it still sent a shudder up her back to hear John speak it out loud. Even now he didn't talk about Sherlock, despite the passage of a full year. It seemed his pain was at the same place it had been after those first few days but he was just getting better at masking it and functioning better. She moved over so they were side by side. “I don't know John. This is Sherlock we're talking about, he wasn't afraid of much.”

“Yea, I know. I just thought this would be one of those times when he was.” John muttered, his jaw clenched hard and his eyebrows drawn down low. He brought his arms around to the front of him and sighed heavily. He glanced over the barest tip of the roof and flinched away. “He had to have been scared, that's a long fall.”

“John...” Molly felt her hand start to rise in his direction but he moved out of the way, not welcoming her touch.

“Or maybe he wasn't scared when he was standing here, but he was on the way down..” John looked toward the edge again, his face giving away just how he was seeing the fall playing out in his head and trying to slide the pieces into place to tell him something. “Even Sherlock had to be scared at some point. I know that better then anyone. But I still don't get why he jumped. I knew he was under stress because of Moriarty but I never thought...”

“Is that why you wanted to come up here? To try and understand? Understand what was going through his mind when he was standing here?” Molly's heart nearly broke in two when John simply nodded and stepped back from the edge, she was more then a little relieved to see that. There was no telling what John would do in his emotional state. “I wish there was something I could say for this to make sense...”

“It's alright, I knew there wouldn't be anything that would help. I just had to come here on the anniversary, it seemed to make sense. At least it did when I woke up this morning.” John looked so sad all of a sudden that she couldn't help herself and she reached out to hug him, wrapping her arms tightly around him for the first time since the funeral and didn't let go. John was taken aback at first, even stiffened at her touch but gradually he relaxed and returned the embrace, his shoulders shaking slightly. He clutched at her like she was the only thing tethering him to the earth and when his chin came down on her shoulder, she heard the smallest start of a ragged cry. John never cried, not even at the funeral. “I just don't understand.”

“I don't either.” Molly was glad he wasn't looking at her because had he been, she would have been even more tempted to spill her guts. There were many times over the last 12 months that she wanted to tell John everything, but it was never more apparent then it was now. John had spent so much time locking away his emotions, never speaking about his feelings for Sherlock or about the suicide, and for a while, not speaking at all. And here he was talking, crying even and she couldn't tell him the one thing that would bring him relief and stop his pain. She had made a promise and as hard as it was, she would keep it. Saying anything could bring danger to everyone involved. “It will be ok. I don't know when but it will be.”

“I miss him. I hate him for making me watch him die but I miss him.” John buried his face in her shoulder, his breath hot on her neck as he struggled to contain himself. He didn't cry again but he was shaking terribly. “I love him.”

“I know you did...”

\----------------

He went to the roof on the first anniversary of your suicide. Molly Hooper was with him. Thought you should know.-MH

And?-SH

And nothing, he did not try anything. He simply felt the need to return to the last place you were alive. He's trying to understand.-MH

He won't understand until I can return and explain it all to him.-SH

You really think he'll sit there and listen to you explain?-MH

John is reasonable but he is fueled by emotion. I expect anger and fury upon my return but he will listen to reason. I've already begun to prepare myself for his reaction for whenever I can get back to him.- SH

And when will that? 2 months, 3 months? 6 ? Are you really moving along as fast as you can? Or are you just delaying your reunion with John because you can't face him after what you put him through?-MH

I would recommend you focus on your diet and less on when I will be coming home. You put on weight the last time I saw you. -SH

\---------------

2 years after the Fall........

 

It was on the second anniversary of Sherlock's death that John found himself returning to the graveyard to stand in front of the headstone that marked his lover's resting place. He had arrived little over an hour ago and was alone as far as he could tell but even knowing that fact brought little desire to start talking to Sherlock's grave. John had done that in the aftermath of his death a handful of times, once right after the funeral and the rest on his own when Molly or Mrs. Hudson had remained behind in the cab to give him privacy. There was always more to say, always plenty of memories to talk about that could help ease the ache he carried around with him. Even standing here utterly alone, where he would never be overheard did not move him to say anything. Two years and he still found it difficult to voice just how torn apart he was.

He had returned to his therapist a few more times and had been able to force himself to speak more about Sherlock. Nothing huge or earth shattering; little things, things that wouldn't be considered important to anyone else. Ella wanted him to go into details about his grief, his anger, his confusion over the suicide but John had adamantly refused. Instead he talked about the things he missed. Sherlock, fresh out of the shower when his hair was still wet and hanging in his eyes and how the water would splash John in the face when Sherlock leaned down to kiss him. The way Sherlock would pass him a cup of tea in the kitchen without even looking in his direction, just assuming that John was always nearby. Or the nights when Sherlock would crawl into bed with him, sliding up under the sheets to press their bodies against each other, his long arms pulling John to his chest when he knew John loved to be. There wouldn't be sex those nights, just them laying together, breathing in each others scents. John missed those moments the most.

And he still didn't speak about them to anyone else.

After his moment with Molly on the roof the first anniversary of Sherlock's death, he hadn't approached her for comfort again. He was embarrassed, regretful that he had very nearly fallen to pieces in her presence. She didn't throw it in his face and she had comforted him when he started crying in her arms, which he did appreciate. It had been so long since he had been held by anyone. But afterward when he had pulled away from her, saw the sadness for him in her eyes, he found himself backpedaling. He didn't want her pity, it was just a burden and he was already carrying a heavy enough load. Allowing himself to fall apart in front of Molly after being so restrained for so long was such a mistake and felt like a betrayal. He wouldn't make that mistake again. 

So he forced himself to start functioning like he use to, throwing himself back into work and taking any shift he could so it would leave no time to think about Sherlock during the day. It was because of this that he was able to continue staying at the flat despite Mrs. Hudson saying that she would lower the rent for him so he wouldn't have to work so much. John had thanked her, genuinely moved by her offer but he didn't take it. He needed the constant work, the constant distraction. If he didn't have that, then he would remember what he use to have and couldn't have again. So he continued working overtime as much as he could, ignoring the worried looks he got from his coworkers. He went for drinks with Mike a few times a week so he wouldn't have to face going back to his empty flat at night. He started talking to Greg again but did not resume taking cases even when Greg offered them. It wouldn't be the same without Sherlock at his side pointing out all the things wrong that everyone else beside he was doing. Luckily Greg understood this and didn't push any further. They kept in touch over the past two years and in that time Greg had insisted on an investigation into the events involving Moriarty and Sherlock's deaths. It didn't come as much of a surprise when Sherlock's name was cleared and he was acquitted of any wrong doing at the time of the kidnappings and the other crimes he was accused of faking just to get attention. It was the first time John had smiled in nearly 2 years, feeling triumph that his faith and trust in Sherlock had proven his innocence. 

John thought it could be then that he finally found the strength to leave it all behind. It had been the accusations after all that had lead Sherlock to making that jump off the roof, a battle that had taken two years to be overturned and realized its wrongdoings and subsequently corrected. The fight was over now, Sherlock's name had been cleansed and restored. There was nothing left to do but let it go.

So he tried.

He refused to pack up Sherlock's room but he did make it a point to close the door and not enter it ever again. It was just too painful to face that space alone and if he wanted to move on he couldn't keep returning to that room, that bed, so he stopped doing it. He went back to sleeping in his own bed, spending less time running his fingers over Sherlock's side of the desk and put the forgotten violin back in its case and tucked away into a corner. He touched nothing else and always collected his features into a look of calm before stepping outside the front door into view of the cameras that were always trained on the outside of the flat.

He hadn't spoken to Mycroft Holmes in the two years since Sherlock died but John had no doubt that the elder Holmes brother still kept an eye on him from time to time. He was just glad that Mycroft hadn't made it a point to get in contact. John would not have been welcoming, if he had.

And some times, just some times, he remembered Sherlock. Only allowed it to happen when he was too tired or worn out to push back the memories. And when they broke through the walls he built, squeezed at his heart until he cried out, he just let himself feel it until he passed out in bed and woke up the next morning with his heart turned against the memories all over again.

A gust of wind blew across his face and jerked him out of his head with such a violent zest so he was back to staring at the headstone in front of him, black and glaring. It was a horrible thing to look at, a monster of a thing that marked the place where the love of his life was lying 6 feet below his feet. It sent a pang loose in his chest and John stepped back and began walking away, back towards the exit and leaving Sherlock behind.

There was nothing but silence in his heart.

\---------------

Sherlock, it has been over a month since you last got in touch with me. I expect a response on a regular basis. You agreed to those terms when you sought out my help two years ago-MH

Ignoring me again are you? How very mature.-MH

Silence is not acceptable. You know this.- MH

I will not ask again after this. Kindly respond or I will keep any and all updates about John Watson to myself. And since you are not in touch with anyone else in his life, I conclude that this will leave you at a disadvantage of sorts when you do want an update.- MH

I despise you. -SH

\---------------

3 weeks later......

John stepped through the front door of 221 B and leaned against the wall with his eyes closed and a hand rubbing circles into the skin at the back of his neck. He was exhausted, he had been on his feet all day and had barely had a minute to sit down and eat lunch. Not that he had had much of an appetite anyway, it had just been one of those days when everything had seemed to irk him in the wrong kind of way and made him long for the silence of the flat. A patient had come in today that reminded him of Sherlock in terms of looks at first glance with dark hair and blue eyes, ratting his heart inside his chest so much that he had been rendered completely unprepared to deal with the sudden rush of emotion that swarmed him and he had fled, allowing another doctor to take the patient until John had gotten himself together. Even then, nothing quite fell back into place for the rest of the day. He was unnerved and knocked off balance that he had spent so long working at. 

And now that he was home, he wanted nothing more then to just sink into his chair with a cup of tea and forget everything. Some how he would manage to do that.

John pushed off the wall and headed up the stairs, moving quickly before Mrs. Hudson could catch wind that he was home and question him about the way he was looking. She had been doing that a lot lately, always looking over him and commenting about how he needed to work less, eat more and rest. She had no qualms about pointing out that he was still looking sad and still had nightmares that had him yelling out in the early hours of the morning. The way she said it made him very aware that she knew why he was the way he was and he wanted avoid another conversation like that. He just wasn't up for it, he wasn't prepared to have another encounter that would lead to a jolt of memories about Sherlock. He was afraid that he if did, he might never recover from today.

John pushed open the door to the flat and immediately headed straight into the kitchen, wanting to put the tea kettle on before he went to change. He looked at the now empty table that use to be covered in science equipment and heard his breath catch in throat. No no, he wasn't going to go down that road. John found the kettle in the cupboard near the sink and filled it with water, set it on the stove top and turned the heat up as he let the room, a sudden urge to get away. He stopped for a second and closed his eyes, feeling the flicker of memory starting to come up from the depths where he had tried to shove them down. It was going to be a horrible night, he could tell. 

With that thought already taking place in his head, John sighed and turned to walk across the darkened flat to the door, not even bothering to turn on lights. The lights from the street came through the windows enough to keep him from running into anything and he was just reaching for the door knob when his way forward was halted by a familiar deep voice that came from the direction of the chairs in front of the fireplace.

“Hello John.” 

John somehow managed to reach out with shaking fingers and flick on the light switch, fully expecting to find that he was alone and simply hallucinating Sherlock's voice like he use to in the early days after his death. The voice would be there but there would be no body and John would end up on the floor in a ball in near tears because it wasn't enough, it was never enough. So he was scared to look around and go through that again, the last time it had happened had been a year ago and it took him nearly a week to let go of. But when John finally pivoted on his feet and faced the chairs, there Sherlock was, sitting with one leg crossed at the knee, clad in his usual suit and hair bouncing all over the place looking all too real. Even the dreams and memories hadn't looked that real. He didn't know how it was possible but he knew he wasn't crazy. He had never felt more sane when confronted with anything having to do with Sherlock and yet all he could do was stare as Sherlock got to his feet and started coming towards him.

“I missed you.”

John's response was silence as he turned once again and walked out the door and climbed the stairs to his bedroom. By the time he slammed the door shut and he slid to the ground, his heart was beginning to shred itself to pieces.


End file.
